My plasma began to boil. Wafts of vile hatred simmered and smoked throughout the room. The putrid odor of unadulterated anger, hypocrisy and bigotry stole the oxygen from the air making life an impossible illusion. I had to get out before my head exploded. Or, easier yet, I had to switch the channel. MSNBC and their mob of maniacs had gone over the top months ago. They have infected the media’s sewer system and my plasma TV with such outrageous lies that I have no choice but to sack my humorous banter for a few minutes to tell the truth. So help me God.

“President Trump to be impeached!” was being reported as fact after an ABC reporter declared that Michael Flynn was going to flip to confirm Trump’s collusion with Russia. Only after Joy Behar, Rachael Maddow and their corrupt cronies danced with delight over the news did ABC finally admit it was all a lie. ALTBTL. Another Lie Told By The Left.

Facts by fantasy has so impugned honest journalism that I must do my part to deliver reality to those that haven’t the ability to decipher fact from fiction or apply common sense to every day situations.

“The tax cuts will cut off spending on cancer treatment”. Believe it or not, there are people that actually believe that to be true. They believe it because their manipulators tell them so but, of course, that is as far from the truth as earth is from Pluto. Nobody elected to congress whether DNC or GOP is going to cut the throats of their most active constitutions, the over 50 club.

“Donald Trump hates Jews, Women and immigrants”. Really? His daughter, son-in-law and their children, Donald’s grandchildren, are, news flash, Jewish! Do the Mika Brzezinski’s of the world think he hates them or the faith they follow? Really? And immigrants. His wife, our First Lady, is an immigrant! The controversy is over those that cross the border illegally. The vast majority, Trump agrees, are good, hard working people. It’s the criminals that come over that are at issue. If you were the parent of a child that was killed by a drunk driver that had prior victims south of the border, you might have second thoughts. Letting people in with open arms without checking their records is insane! How can anyone with any humanitarian values disagree with that? Safety, I would hope, would be at the forefront of everyone’s mind when deciding the immigration issue.

“Donald Trump and Judge Roy Moore are sexual deviants”. Words are dangerous to be sure but they are words, not physical objects. What Trump said in a locker room is disgusting but if every man that bragged to another man what he’s done with a woman was a criminal offense, there would be more jails than houses in the USA. Male braggadocio is as old as Neanderthal’s painting their imagined conquests on the walls of caves. Ain’t pretty but it’s totally harmless.

The allegations against Judge Moore are just that, allegations with no proof. In forty years not one woman complained about Moore’s behavior. Only a couple months before an election the Democrat’s deem to be on the hinge of the party’s existence did these women come crawling out of nowhere. That, per any iota of common sense, should be cause for great suspicion.

What is most upsetting to any human being who has even a hint of compassion is the total disregard for the confirmed sexual predators from the left side of the aisle. Bill Clinton had sex with a barely legal girl in the Oval Office and was caught lying about it over and over but the so-called “champions or women;s rights” in the Democrat party go silent as a rock. Senator Al Franken’s deviant behavior is well documented with photographs yet only now is the left calling for his removal. Polling is what drives the liberals, not morality. The majority of Americans that were polled by the DNC showed an inconsequential attitude. They didn’t care that Clinton had sex with a young girl in the oval office so the media and the Democrat party let the pervert flag fly. Today, however, there is anger over the sexual misconduct of John Conyers and Al Franken et al, so they follow the polls and demand them to resign. The hypocrisy couldn’t be more evident within the liberals of this great country but the sheep either don’t care or are too enamored by their esteemed leaders to know their own hearts.

“Trump colluded with Russia!”. That lie began with Hillary Clinton’s refusal to accept reality and has festered to every branch of the Democrat’s army of manipulators. There is hardly an hour on CNN, NBC or MSNBC that their hosts don’t follow the puppet masters that give them talking points to insist Trump and Putin fixed the election. Their damning rhetoric is costing Americans millions of dollars via special councils that we have now learned have liberal biased investigators who have skewed reports and leaks to show collusion. The actual fact is that there was and is collusion in DC but it is in between the FBI and Obama’s Department of Justice. They are the ones that did not investigate Hillary Clinton’s emails that violated federal laws nor the possibility of a private Uranium One deal that put millions into the coffers of the Clinton Foundation that keeps ninety six cents of every dollar “donated” to cover “overhead” costs.

The list of lies and deliberate bias in the media and even in the FBI, for God’s sake, is nearly endless. But, all this talk without one single laugh line is exhausting! I, your devoted Boo Feeder, will be back soon with a Much lighter take on the events that shape our lives.

Our fearless reporter, Boo Feeder, found himself in the belly of the beast this morning on a hunch that The Washington Post was at it again. Boo knows the smell of a rat and that stench was about to knock him over when the door opened to the men’s room. It wasn’t lingering gas from the bowels of the newspaper that violated Feeder’s olfactory, it was the presence of the company itself squeezing its way into the tiled and teak rest room then ran into stall number thirteen. Boo took advantage of the situation to ask The Post some questions about its’ most recent slanderous goings on.

” Post? Can you tell me the source of your claims again Judge Roy Moore? How did you confirm those four decades old allegations?”

“Times? That you?” Came the bellowing voice of Post from the stall reserved for the handicapped. “Times, you SOB! Come in here asking stupid-ass questions like that. Confirm schmofirm! You’re just pissed that we got the scoop. Go back to southeast where you come from, loser!” With that a loud RiiiiiiiiP! belched out followed by a funk from the pits of hell.

Holding my nostrils tight together, I replied “No. This is not The Washington Times. I am Boo Feeder and I was just wondering how you were able to verify the stories you printed alleging Judge Roy Moore had relations with underage girls nearly forty years ago. You certainly double and triple checked facts. I’m wondering how you were able to do that when there were no police reports found to back up the stories.”

“Rachel? That you girl? Oh, sheeee-it no! You that Boo Feeder freefrickinlancer with the cat? Yeah! I know you. Dang, I thought you was a guy! Hey! That thing you wrote on Donna Brazile was damn good. Funny shit that!” This was followed by another Riiiiiiiippppppppp!

Oh good Lord, what am I doing here? To exit the sewage pit, I got right to the point. ” I am most definitely a guy, Post. Holding my nose shut makes me sound like Rachel Mad…” Why waste time with that? I continued with “you claimed that Judge Moore had inappropriate relations with four girls thirty eight years ago. I personally checked on those accusers and, to no surprise, one was a former employee of Hillary Clinton and the others have an unquestioned loyalty to the Democrat party. To further muddy their reputations, all four of their finances have improved drastically in the past couple months. New cars, new homes, vacations to Hawaii. It’s as if they all hit the lottery! And in a way, they did, didn’t they Post? Before you answer, I remember a story by your own Bob Woodward that laid claim that local contractors were all colluding to raise bids and to keep outsiders away. When it was learned that the Post was basing the story on one very incompetent man who was mad because he felt entitled to get the work without bidding, the Post never retracted. Nope. The Post led a grand jury on a fairy dust trail until time took away the public’s interest and millions of their dollars. That’s just one example of how the Post has printed fake news to fit their agenda. There are plenty more, dear Post!”

“Big freaking deal! So what? You know how many papers we sell when we make up the news? And advertising! General Electric, Starbucks, Democrat candidates and the list goes on! When a blockbuster headline comes knocking on the door, why lose time verifying it? You just don’t get it do you Feeler? That’s why you’ll never be a” then a roll of toilet paper came unraveling under the stall’s door. ” Hey Rachel! Kick that back in here, will ya? Come on girl! I got to clean up this mess on me! Damn! GET WITH IT BITCH! The paper, the paper. NOW!”

“Post, why don’t you use your newspaper? There’s no difference between used toilet paper and The Post. Besides, think of all the ads you can print on your filthy ass? I’m sure Northam, Schumer, Pelosi, Clintons and Soros will be happy to cover you with dollar bills to clean up with!” I said with a sarcasm not to be proud of.

Post came storming out of stall bare assed and stinking to low hells. Grabbing for the toilet paper that I “accidentally” kicked out into the hallway, Post fell down and rolled into a throng of onlookers. They gasped in horror as their beloved media giant laid naked in its own waste. One gray haired man said “Oh boy. The old SOB might be down for the count.”

Donna Brazile, a long time Democratic strategist and mouthpiece for everything liberal, has stepped all over her former hero, Hillary Clinton. In her book, Hacks, the 57 year old woman who has been described as “openly lesbian”, laid the equivalent of tar and feathers over the former Secretary of State for rigging the 2016 presidential election. In her book, Ms. Brazile exposed the failures in the DNC that made Donald Trump the 45th president of the United States. To a point, Brazile outed Clinton as the one who rigged the nomination in a way that she, and only she, would be the Democrat Party nominee then go on to a certain victory in November 2016.

We all know how that went.

Lucky for his fans and followers, Boo Feeder was walking past a Starbucks when he saw Donna Brazile at a table. She was there for a book signing with stacks of Hacks but no customers so Boo bolted in to seize the opportunity.

” Miss Brazile! Hope you don’t mind if I ask a couple questions this morning. ” I screeched one of those noisy metal chairs over to her table and sat down before she could say no.

” Who the hell you? Where is my book you want signed? What you want to ask me boy? ” She said while spitting her latte in my eye.

” My name is Boo Feeder. I am a freelance reporter with tens of thous.., er, tens of followers and we all want to know how Hillary Clinton managed to fix the primaries “.

” Lookit here Feeder, I never said Hillary rigged or fixed the damn election! It was the Russians! You take that down real easy boy and you take it down right. I did not get it on with Hillary! She met me before the debate and I talked to her, that’s mighty damn right. Sure, I handed her the question list. So what, white boy? That is my freaking job! Then that damn Wackoff Leaks got my emails. Now that ain’t right! All I got out of all my work for the Democrat Party was fired and a kiss on the cheek from Hillary Damn Clinton! A peck on the cheek! Like I was expecting a little more, right? Maybe a hug? A kiss on the lips? Maybe cop a feel of my big, ample breasts? A peck on the cheek? Damn! I said right there that That’s It! I’m going to put Joe Boy Biden in her place. That dirty bee-atch! Biden says No! Not in this lifetime! He’s afraid of the Clinton’s, especially that Hillary. He says Donna? You know what happens to people that go against her? They have sudden heart attacks! Weird ass accidents! They die Donna! Shit, he’s right. I know for sure! So I write this book you want signed. I got bank for that from you know who! I take it all back though, right? Hillary didn’t “

The woman sitting across from me has lodged so much mocha latte into my eyes by now that I couldn’t bear to hear any more of her slabbering. ” Miss Brazile. Excuse me ma’am. All that is in your book. What I want to know is this, are you going to support Joe Biden or Bernie Sanders in 2020? “

” Is you out your ever racist mind Feeder? I got my own pick for 2020 and it is Not none of them two losers! No! What we need here is hope and change! What we need here is somebody who has Never been in politics in her whole life. Someone to take on that gold-ass bigot and toss his fat ass out on the sidewalks of New York where he Nevah! shoulda left. No sir! We, I mean I, am going to make us a new president! One who knows blacks have been sitting in the back of the bus too damn long. And women! We need representing! Boy, we, I mean I, am going to make her the next president of the United States! “

With that she pointed to a laminated card on her key ring. In the middle of the lamination, surrounded by hearts and roses was the image of a woman that was further smudged with lipstick kisses. I had an idea who her idol was but had to ask.

” Why that is the next POTUS you poor white man! That there is MO! Oh my word, is she she going to straighten you and every other white-ass honky cracker out like chickens on a string! ” At that she pulled a picture of Hillary Clinton out of her bra, threw it on the floor, jumped out of her chair stepping all over Hillary and spinning around the coffee shop chanting ” GO TO HELL HILLARY! WE, I MEAN I, WANT EM-OH, EM-OH, MO TWO OH!”

The Starbuck’s baristas joined the merriment singing ” MO, MO, Mocha Ole! Mocha Ole! We love our mocha ol”. That’s when Donna Brazile threw her chair at the unfortunate singing duo. She screamed ” What the hell you white people know about mocha brown anything? I don’t care about your stupid coffee. Shit, I got better coffee at the Piggly Damn Wiggly! Mocha Ole, what kind of crazy cracker shit it that? I was talking about the one and only EM OH! And she is going to run this whole damn world like it should be done! M-O, MO, MO TWO OH! “

The chanting and throwing of chairs continued until every table, every window, every person in the little store went crashing to the sidewalk outside. I knew at that instant just who her leader was, who Brazile planned on propping up for the 2020 election and I began to shiver. The only hope for all of us is that there will be full exposure on the rigging investigation and the real Russian story. That the Clinton’s and Obama’s will be exposed and MO will never be president of the United States.

While on vacation in Key Largo, Boo Feeder had an impromptu meeting with Florida congresswoman Frederica Wilson. Both were waiting for a table at Snapper’s when Feeder took advantage of the situation. What follows is his account of the bizarre happenstance.

October 20, 2017: While taking in the spectacular oceanfront views, my eyes were quickly averted to a flashing ten gallon cowboy hat bobbing in my peripheral vision. Oh my God! Is that Frederica Wilson under that hat? Yes! I jumped off the bar stool then accidentally on purpose bumped into her.

” Mrs. Wilson? How honored it is to meet with you! Can I ask you a couple quick questions while we wait for our tables?”

” Who is you? You know my name but I don’t know yours. What you want to axed? Hurry boy! Us rock stars don’t get much time between gigs. Quickly! ” she said while readjusting her rhinestone and lights encrusted hat. Above the rim ‘Rock Star Baby!’ was blinking at the pace of 1970’s disco light.

Finding it difficult to keep from laughing, I bit my lip and got right to the point. “My name is Boo Feeder, ma’am. You say you were with Mrs. Johnson when President Trump called. How long have you been friends with her and did you know her son, La David Johnson who made the ultimate sacrifice while on a mission in Niger?”

“Listen up Bob. I been friends with La Meesha Johnstown since I was principal at Skyward School. Her son was a pupil of mine. I know him like that! Me, Mishu and Davey was close, you know?” She touched the brim of her hat and like that! the message changed to ‘RESIST!’ then continued ” Donald Trumpet, he calls her, right? I’m sitting in the car minding my own business when I heard that cracker say “Mrs. Jackson, I’m calling for your boy who got hisself kilt. You knows that, right? Yep. Down there in Africa he went and got put out of action. Forever! I’m just call…”.

That’s when I had to interrupt her lying at the expense of a fallen hero. “Frederica Wilson, you know none of that is true. The Gold Star mother’s name is Myeshia Johnson, not any of the names you gave her. And, her son was never a pupil in your school that you also, strangely misnamed. It was Skyway Elementary and La David Johnson wasn’t even born when you left to work on the school board. By the way, my name is Boo, not Bob.” I wanted to excoriate her for politicizing the death of a soldier but held my breath. It was clear this woman has a loose grip on reality at best.

Wilson’s hat was now not only flashing ‘Wilson For President 2020!’ but it also had Isaac Hayes’ song ‘Theme From Shaft’ vibrating the hidden speakers in the brim of her over sized, over the top, Stetson.

“Okay Bucky. So what? You happy with yourself picking on a poor black woman? I’m 74, soon to be 75 years old and look at me! My husband can’t even keep his hands off me. And Mashika? She got nothing to do with how that Trumper bossman talks about us poor, black people. Why, I ain’t even got two million dollars yet! You feel me? You’d like to I bet! Maybe I wasn’t Exactly WITH Mrs. Johnston when that white bigot bastard called her but I could have been! Just the day before I handed her that envelope from the greatest, number one president of all time, Barack Obama. He was the first black man child president and in 2020 I’m going to be the first black woman president! Even sooner if everything goes as planned! Imagine that Booker! ME! President Rock Star!”

With that Frederica Wilson wiggled and danced her way to table number one. ‘Shaft’ was blasting, her hat was sparkling and her entourage surrounded her with arms folded. One was giving me the evil eye but I paid no attention. It was going on eight p.m. and I was starvingly awaiting a table that would never come.

A server slipped me a note telling me that due to unmentionable circumstances, I was not going to be getting a table. Ever! Seems that when I reminded Rep. Wilson that her husband passed away nearly thirty years ago thus catching her in yet another fabrication, she passed a message on to the owner just ten seconds after we parted. It read “don’t you seat that white racist pig over there with wire rimmed glasses and a blue shirt made by slaves in Mozambique. Sonofabitches name is Big Fubar and if in I ever see him in here again I tell ALL my peeps not to pay you no never mind. And you knows I got a LOT of people!”

So I’m sitting here eating a chili dog from Tom Thumb thinking about what just occurred. As a clown in a Barnum and Bailey tent, Wilson would have been a star act, maybe even a Rock Star. But, as a member of congress that has the power to alter our lives forever, she is one scary cowgirl!

Boo Feeder decided to take time off the swamp race in DC to take a little ride to the hills of central Pennsylvania. This is what happened:

Saturday morning Anita and I were heading west to take in the magnificent Fall foliage that has spread their glory far and wide this year. The mountains are only a few miles from here so I only put in $10 gas figuring we weren’t going far and we’d be back home in plenty of time to feed Boo The Cat. Gas prices were finally coming down since the spike caused by Hurricane Harvey’s tirade on the oil refineries in Houston. Gas would be cheaper tomorrow, I’ll fill up after church. Maybe.

We stopped at the Top Of The Hill Inn at the peak of Big Mountain in the Tuscarora Mountain ridge so Anita could take some pics for her Facebook page. While she was pressing her phone like a cat having a panic attack, I asked my phone “ Where is there an auction nearby?”. As a blogger and antiques dealer, I’m always on the hunt for a good story or a better deal on a vintage watch or anything that will pay the bills. Google answered the query in 2.3 seconds with “Hill Top Auction”. I saw that it was starting in one hour and said “Take me to the Hilltop Auction!”. Anita got back in the car totally unaware of where we were about to go.

In less time than the five Harley Davidson’s parked next to us could rumble their way back to life and kick stone dust in the windshield, we were heading down the mountain, points west to an unknown sale that was 42 miles away per Madame Google. I didn’t tell Anita where we were going and figured Certainly! There would be another gas station between here and there. Well……42 miles later we were “at your destination” in the middle of a plowed corn field in the middle of nowhere with no auction house in sight. Covertly, I plugged in the address again but now there was no cell phone service and, of course, No gas Nowhere! Anita was pointing her phone to the clouds trying to upload her photo’s, not paying any attention to the peril we were in.

I tried to backtrack my way to civilization then saw a sign tacked on a hedgeapple tree for Hill Top Auction, Turn Left Here! The trees on the mountain were beautiful but still, no sign of an auction house until around an Ess curve, then Voila! There were pick-up trucks galore and the sound of a high pitched voice going “tendaya tendya, five! NowOne, NowOne, two! Sold onedolla!” There was no auction house. The sale was on a cleared lot of land at the top of a hill. Just a bunch of every Nascar item you can think of, Rebel flags and deer horns laying on the bare ground with a crowd of people dancing nervously around. The seller, an older man with a white ponytail sticking out the back of his #3 hat had bidders chomping at his heels. The men and women alike all had hair to their shoulders and beards to their bellies. I could have sworn there were few with banjo’s and shotguns strapped to their back but that could have been my imagination taking me back to ‘Deliverance’.

We did stay for a bit as the food smelled SO good and tasted even better. The few people I struck up a conversation with were hospitable and friendly with a tad of apprehension thrown in. New buyers at any auction are met with scrutiny whether at Christie’s in The Big Apple or on the side of a mountain in The Big Nowhere. With the sun setting, I told Anita, who was by now used to my sudden impulses, that we best get down to the flat land to find gas. I should have asked someone there but was afraid of …what I don’t know. No, that’s not true, I do know. It’s pride. It’s a man thing. Never, Never, Never! Ask for directions!

No phone service, no idea which way to go and with no lights of a town to guide us, we left the safety of the Hill Top Auction crowd, such as it was. The gas gauge light came on before getting to any hint of a main road yet we kept going. Mile after mile after hill after valley until Finally! There was an old general store with one gas pump. The girl with a camouflage tee shirt came out in the dark, took one look at me and said “Lost, eh? Get that alot uppin here. Ye jes faller thet there road till you can’t no more then you-ins go left for easterners ‘cause I know y’all ain’t no westerns. Twenty doya?” How did she know? Was I that obvious? Of course I was. I’m an Easterner for crying out loud! Despite the fact that gas was twenty cents more a gallon in ByGod, PA, I told Camo Girl to “Fill ‘er up, hon!”

Thing is, ten dollars worth of gas two hours ago should have had us stranded in the first corn field. That we were able to go another 40 – 50 miles up, down and around the Appalachians is nothing short of a miracle. I never told Anita how dire the situation really was but she knew it. When I saw the gas pump I said “Thank God!”. Then Anita said “Prayer works!”

By a stroke of luck, fate, happenstance or whatever you want to call such a chance meeting, Boo Feeder found himself stuck in an elevator with Nancy Pelosi and 2016 losing presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton. Their conversation was, well, read the transcript for yourself:

Warning! Contains offensive, vulgar language.

” Mrs. Pelosi? Mrs. Clinton? What a surprise to find both of you here at the Trump International Hotel! ” I said while boarding the Executive Elevator on the third floor. Unbeknownst to the women, I reached around my back to press the Stop button. Penthouse suite be damned! There were too many questions to ask in just six floors.

” Who the hell are you? ” They said in unison. Then Hillary said ” Oh holy freaking shit. It’s that lowbrow what’s-his-name, Boob Feeler. Hey! What the fuck? Why are we stuck in this piece of shit box? ” Then, again together, they screamed ” I love your box! “. Obviously the ladies had one or eighteen too many at the bar. This will be fun!

” Ladies. it is rumored that you are pooling resources to revise the second amendment. True? False? ” I asked with my back to the button panel.

” Boo Feeder ma’am and no, I don’t want to feel you up. Thanks but no thanks. So, you mean to take guns away from all citizens? Everyone, Mrs. Pelosi? ”

Hillary Clinton piped in ” Goddam right Goof Baller! Nobody should have a gun. NOBODY! If there were no guns there would be no goddam gun fucking violence ASSHOLE! ” Then she turned to Mrs. Pelosi who was sucking her fingers and said to her ” Nan baby, it’s going to be okay. We’ll get in our suite and I’ll make everything fine, honey.”

I tried to ask them if they planned on outlawing knives, cars, hammers, tire irons and the like. Not to mention the scalpels of abortion doctors who kill over 200 babies a day but, without warning, the women attacked me with, you guessed it, guns! Both pulled 9mm Glocks out of their purses demanding I get them out of this box so they could get into boxes they both loved and pined for.

Funny thing was, when I let go of the Stop button, the women didn’t get out on the ninth floor. They inserted an Executive Pass key and, hand on hand, pushed the CT button. Now, what do you think they wanted to do in the Clock Tower in DC? This could be bad. Real bad.

Lucky for us all, their visit to the clock tower was not for nefarious means. They just wanted some ” alone time ” as Mrs. Pelosi told me later when I saw her and Mrs. Clinton at the bar sipping out of a bottle of Drambuie with interlaced wet hands squeezing together tightly. Each had one hand on the bottle on the table and one hand on their pistol under the table. The mystery of why the clock bells struck seventeen times at the stroke of one, was solved!